Author: QueenMsLair

Born and raised in The Bronx, New York; Rebecca who affectionately calls herself Medusa is a force to be reckoned with. Opinionated, eccentric, and analytical, Medusa has found a way to give her love and passions some voice. A voice of a politically aware, self-improving, hip-hop lovin' millenial and a woman of color. Food & drinks, fashion, and family are among the topics in which she writes while exploring themes like adulthood, culture, and self-love.

Eyes opened wide
While I make observations from the other side
Black families were destroyed
So white families can flourish
The Black baby mama dehumanized
While white women have the privilege of motherhood
Police patrol our neighborhoods
While whites gentrify our neighborhoods
But God forbid you’re black walking in their neighborhoods
White children have fathers in their homes
While our fathers are jailed, worked to death, and buried
Justice is for whites only
A white rapist gets no time for his crime
While a black brother gets jail time for a dime of weed
White people are encouraged to breed
While Blacks and Browns are encouraged to abort
Being Black Everything is about your race
While being white is colorblind
Ain’t no such thing as being blind to color
When the world is naturally colorful
Only those who are absent of color are blind to the sand drawn war lines
But we’ll wash them up like the shore til their war lines ain’t there no more.

I must learn to master the raging currents if I want to sail, I was made to.

It’s in my Sangre. By the way, that means blood.

My great grandfather was a fisherman, hypnotized and swallowed in Oshun of the Honduran coast.

As he swam deeper into her, they swam, producing a fish school of four, finding their way in the Ocean of life,

Oshun carried them, them like the weight of love, crushing on her shoulders, teaching them to master the crashing waves alone.

The teacher she taught them how to swim when my abuelito drowned. My abuelita taught her four children, three boys, and one girl, who taught their children, who taught me, to love, live, and explore the rivers, the streams, and creeks of the afro-latin life.

The scratching grains of sand stick to my skin, while the sun rays beat against my melanin like rhythms of our ancestor’s drums. The boom, tap, tap, boom, tap, tap guides my feet down the path of destiny. I am met with a dance of waves. The ocean greets me. The bubbles splash and kiss my feet. I hear my abuelito’s voice in the wind.

A hurricane of rage filled within my rib cage, from the words spoken from a chained brain, my king-shackled, I stood there pained by hurt and shocked, by what he hadn’t learned, it burned like propane. He was insane in a membrane that needed to be unlocked.

I’ll tell you why shit got heated

Why I got heated and he told me to beat it

Why I stormed out and slammed the door

He said Gay black men were oppressed more

Like Oppression for women was cute like that bag at that store

How it’s wrong for me to say fag, but he can still call me a bitch,

But Mitch didn’t give a fuck if he was fucking Micheal instead of Gwyneth,

Like they didn’t give a fuck if Tyrone was fucking Tone, ya’ll still are respected,

Because last time I checked your great grandmothers had to wait 50 years for the 19th amendment

Just to vote,

For white men to vote on whether she should have the right to refuse to give life.

When it is not them who is sitting under the knife.

What the fuck is that?

Ladies what kind of lie are we living?!

Niggas want a chick with hair laid, so he can get laid, so he complain, and brag about how he gets paid, while we get less than that, like we not paid sixty cents less to a dollar, but we worked four times harder, four quarters and over time, just to get over six less dimes, to your dolla, yet you holla that you getting paid, to repeat the cycle of getting laid, when he’s really being used, as a tool, the money is yo massa, got him fooled, black women have it harder than you, gay or straight.

Not only are we black

We are women

We are the most policed,

Not only physically, but

Politically,

Emotionally

Mentally,

Demographically

And

Socially

PEMDAS and this ain’t even math class

We are the real second class, the double edged sword,

We can’t be too confident or like sex because we’re labeled whores

There is no her story in your history, y’all love white women, Asians, Latinas

But black men lovin black women is a mystery

There is no privilege given to being a black woman

Everyday there is an attack on Black womanhood

It’s every where around you, you just wear the hood

Of male privilege.

I need black men to use their privilege to protect their women

Pro-woman pro-taking care of yo business

But stop doing yo business on us, black women are not your porcelain thrones

For you to defecate on microphones while you degrade us in your songs.

Your girl is not your mama, we are not your sexual objects, we are not for your drama, we are not for preference after your first one rejects, we are not your doormats, we are not practice for your bats, your fists, or feet,

You must not have been introduced to God, cus it’ll be a black woman you’ll meet

Stop protecting these foreign women who aren’t protecting you, stop blaming your problems on your women and be accountable. Stand up for us for once! Ya’ll quick to hit us up for a dick suck, but when it’s time to fight back, line busy or no one pick up,

Wassup, with y’all being cowards for justice but wanna claim to be real niggas,

When you won’t even protect women who look like you, y’all hidden figures.

Let em burn, let them enjoy their oppression,
Mind be racing, that’s why I dodge smoke sessions.
People think I’m insane
With all this shit in my brain,
Reading lines in my books,
like they lines of cocaine
And I don’t mean to sound rude
But, why college feel like another high school?
Same structure, different professors
Don’t get it twisted, not saying their job any lesser.
But professor, profess to me, how this degree, gon help me in life
So I can tell you the circumference of this knife,
In my side while Bill telling me run my pockets, even the inside.
Tell me how this paper supposed to make mills,
When I see people with the same paper who can barely make the bills
Or that student addicted to them pills to get that grade.
Didn’t mean to put you on blast, but everybody needa hero.
That’s what I was told. College graduates make one more zero.
Please massa!
I mean Fasfa …
I just wanna go to school,
So you can miseducate and sedate me
And make me your tool.
I’ll be disposed of one of two ways:
Use me till my last days or they’ll smoke me like my honey glazed js
Either way they getting paid
Which brings me to life insurance
Paying coins on my life, when it’s ensured death is inevitable
Yet they making a killing on my people,
We die, they collect a check, their scam is incredible.
How we praise a green that’s not even edible?
Where does money come from?
Are the numbers really credible?
Or is it made up?
Like paying fifty cent for an extra cup
It’s ridiculous
We teach our children bout“St. Nicholas”
Now they stealing shit, eating other people’s cookies
While the rich leaves crumbs for the bums and say we uncivilized,
When the truth needs to be realized
Who makes a system founded in suicide?
They poison our water,
And the food that we eat
Can’t give money for schools
But they can afford a new fleet
Taking selfies, thinking you cool
Chasing paper like a fool,
Remember the person paying for all this shit
Is You.

Short documentary Co Produced by Sage Love and Kelly Snider and Directed By Sage Love is a project in which the discussion of police brutality in America is discussed from the perspective of the black women. The project also pays homage to Alton Sterling Philando Castile and Korryn Gaines.

I’m a people person. Always have been, probably always will be. I understand and value human life. I probably value human life more than you do. I enjoy talking to people, listening to their stories, thoughts, and perspectives. I love learning about heritages and culture. And after all, my major did find me. Anthropology that is. No, I don’t study rocks as my father thinks, but I do enjoy studying humans. After all, everybody only cares about money, but money cannot grow in a womb for 9 months, it does not have a heartbeat, it cannot conduct or carry a conversation. Yet, money has more value than human life.

For someone who claims to know me so well, you should know this about me and not have a problem with the fact that I am in fact friendly. That’s what my mother raised me to be. Not some bitter misanthrope, because your mother raised you that way. That’s what they (the powers that be) want you to be. A miserable, unfriendly, close-minded, inexperienced, slither of a human. By Limiting socialization and human contact with technology and money. If that’s who you are, you can keep that. I don’t want any parts of it.

They say, it’s not what you do, but who you know. I would think that someone who knows about networking and human contact, you would understand. But for some reason, it just won’t register in your thick skull. For some reason you equate my friendliness for infidelity or whatever insecurity you may have. Well guess what? Yes, I’m friendly and why would you want to change that about me? And why should I have to? It all boils down to trust, and clearly, you don’t trust me. You think I’m you. Socializing and flirting with others, or lying about my relationship status when that is clearly not the case. I’m a bitch and a hoe for speaking my mind and being friendly.

I can’t help but chuckle at your misogynistic bullshit. You were raised in this system, it isn’t your fault.. or at least it wasn’t but since you met me a year and change ago, I pointed out your misogynist ways and attitudes, in hopes that they would change. But they haven’t. You cannot handle that I am headstrong, dominant, and that I speak my mind; whether you want to hear it or not. You cannot take constructive criticism, even if it is for your benefit, especially if it comes from me, because you feel that a woman’s words don’t hold the same weight. You haven’t directly said it, but your actions and lack of heeding to my advice shows me that. I can tell you some information first or make a suggestion, and you won’t bat an eye, but the minute someone else says it (a man) you hop and skip to it.

I’m a communicator. I enjoy conversation. You know that already. But for some reason, when it comes to communication, you act as if you don’t know what I expect and what I don’t tolerate. I’ve told you plenty of times before, but quite frankly baby, I’m tired of repeating myself. I’m tired of explaining myself to you. I’ve grown weary with exhaustion from your excuses. What is so hard about speaking to me? What’s so hard about calling me and letting me know you were checking on me, or texting me, letting me know you’re thinking about me? Why must you make the most simplest shit, the most difficult. I’m not asking you to send a fucking rocket ship to the moon nigga, I’m asking you to be proactive and communicate. I shouldn’t have to be the one ALWAYS calling and texting you. Why can’t you call or text me? Why do you let so many hours go by without speaking to me? If I don’t hit you up at all, would I even hear from you? I’m tired of the excuses. You have all the time in the world, yet for some reason, you can’t make time for me. I guess I’m not worth your time. Out of sight, out of mind. Put yourself in my shoes for once. Don’t make me give you a dose of your own medicine. We know my middle name is Petty Labelle, and I try my hardest not to be petty, because it would only make things worse.

But, honestly… you’re not making this easy for me. You make me feel as though you’re not working with me, you’re working against me. There’s no excuse as to why I don’t hear from you. I’m not for it. I’m not tolerating the disrespect. Either get it together and be the people person you pretend to be in the street with your peoples, or just do us both a favor and stop wasting my time. If you can’t hold it down and communicate, when you know what I expect, after all this time, then I SERIOUSLY can’t fuck with you. I see it as you being spiteful, and I’m not here for it. Get your shit together or get lost.